


useless, helpless, hopeless (safe)

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I love that tag, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), also VERY apt here, no betas we fall like angels, this one starts real dark but ends super soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23104174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crowley picked a bad day to drop by the shop. Gabriel had already gone, thank goodness, but the bruises on Aziraphale’s face most certainly hadnot, and the truth came out.Gabriel was raping Aziraphale, and there was absolutely nothing that Crowley could do about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 416
Collections: Anonymous





	useless, helpless, hopeless (safe)

**Author's Note:**

> From [an excellent prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2260569#cmt2260569) on the GO kinkmeme. 
> 
> If there’s anything I should have warned for in the tags that I missed, please let me know!! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

**_London, 1852_ **

Today had been a bad day. 

Aziraphale dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the back room of his shop before the privacy wards Gabriel had put up could vanish. He barely remembered to grab his clothes on the way– nothing had ripped today, which was good. He didn’t feel like having to miracle anything to rights, or risk taking his things to a tailor to fix them. Ever since the mid-18th century, Gabriel had started frequenting some of the tailor’s shops down in London, and Aziraphale had absolutely no interest in running into him more than was absolutely necessary. 

Carefully, Aziraphale miracled himself clean, wiping away all of the come dripping down between his legs and settling in his stomach. No blood this time, which was good. It was always so much more difficult when there was blood involved. 

Of course, the lack of blood didn’t mean that it had been _gentle_ , and Aziraphale winced as he began to set himself to rights. He would likely be feeling this for the next several days, in various forms. 

He knew better than to heal it. After all, it was Gabriel who kept track of Aziraphale’s miracles. Healing something on his corporation that would heal in short order on its own was undoubtedly frivolous, and Gabriel had a tendency to deliver his notes in person. 

Not that avoiding reprimands made Gabriel do this any less frequently, really. There was very little Aziraphale could do to avoid Gabriel when the Archangel wanted to see him, and he seemed to want to see Aziraphale quite a lot in the past fifty years, ever since he’d changed his mind about recalling him to Heaven. Aziraphale was eternally grateful that he got to stay on Earth, that Crowley’s antics had reminded Gabriel of the whole _point_ of this mess in the first place, but there were… side effects. 

Aziraphale sighed, finishing up with his bow tie and tugging on his waistcoat. 

Then the shop door jingled open, and Aziraphale froze, his hands clutching uselessly at the fabric. Not again. Not yet. Not so soon, he couldn’t do it again, not yet, _please_ – 

“Angel? Aziraphale, are you here?” Crowley called. 

Aziraphale felt himself relax, almost involuntary. Oh, Crowley was– 

He froze again. Oh, Lord. No. No no no no no, Crowley couldn’t find out, Crowley couldn’t know about this, if Crowley knew that would put him in danger again and that defeated the whole _point_ – 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called again, moving deeper into the shop. 

“I’m here!” Aziraphale called, rushing to button up his waistcoat and throwing up a mirage over his face. It probably wouldn’t work, Crowley would be able to sense that there was a miracle there, hiding something, but it would be better than _nothing_. “I’m here, Crowley, I’m alright, but. Um. Now is not the best time…” 

“I felt you– something happened,” Crowley said, and oh, good Lord, he was still getting _closer_ , Aziraphale couldn’t let him see this. “You were hurt, but I couldn’t get in. There was some sort of ward over the shop.” 

And then Crowley emerged into the back room, took one look at Aziraphale, half-risen from the sofa, and darted to his side, kneeling down beside him and almost-but-not-quite reaching for his face. 

“Angel, what _happened_?” Crowley breathed. 

“I did tell you that now was not a good time,” Aziraphale said, looking away. It was too late to bother strengthening the mirage, but he could shift it, make the damage look less severe than it was– 

“Angel, stop,” Crowley said. “Stop trying to hide it, I can tell when you’re using a miracle. What happened? Who hurt you?” 

Aziraphale let out a huff of air, dropping the mirage entirely and collapsing back onto the sofa. “I’m not about to tell you that.” 

Something flickered across Crowley’s face, something soft and hurt. “I just want to help.” 

“I know, dear,” Aziraphale said. “And that’s exactly the problem.” 

The hurt look faded back into anger. “Angel. Please. Just… what _happened_? Why won’t you talk to me? I can help you. It’s part of the Arrangement, yeah? Lend a hand, and all that?” 

Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh at that. “My dear, while I admire your tenacity, there is nothing to be _done_.” 

“Bullshit,” Crowley snarled, jumping to his feet before dropping back down again and tugging his glasses off. “How are you so… what _happened_?” 

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to convince you to forget about it?” 

“Someone used your bloody face as a punching bag, angel, I’m not just gonna fucking forget about it!” Crowley snapped. 

Aziraphale flinched. 

Instantly, Crowley deflated, his gaze almost _pleading_. “If you… if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s… I get that. But. But I _want_ you to talk to me, angel. I want to help you. Any way I can.” 

“There’s nothing you can _do_ ,” Aziraphale said softly. 

Crowley frowned. “Let me be the judge of that. And, I mean. I can heal these, for starters.” He reached out and brushed his fingers across the bruises. 

Aziraphale jerked himself back, panic flaring up in his chest. “No! No, no, please, don’t heal them, he’ll be so _upset_ –“ 

Crowley had frozen, his hand still outstretched and the gold of his eyes slowly bleeding out into the sclera. “Who’s he?” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “If I tell you… If I tell you, you have to _promise_ not to do anything stupid. You can’t… you can’t go after him, or… or… I don’t even know. You can’t be _reckless_ , Crowley.” 

“M’not reckless,” Crowley muttered. “And I’m not making any sort of promises like that until I know what the fuck is going on.” 

“ _Crowley_ –“ 

“Fine,” Crowley bit out. “Fine. I won’t be reckless. I’ll be careful, I won’t do anything stupid, now will you just _tell me what’s happened_?” 

Aziraphale sighed. There would be no getting Crowley to let it be, not when he got like this. But he couldn’t tell him the whole truth, if Gabriel found out that Crowley knew... “I… um. Well. As it turns out, um. The Archangel Gabriel has certain… needs, and he’s chosen me to provide for them.” 

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “What the bloody heaven does that mean?” 

“You can figure it out, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said. “You’re very clever. And I did explain it to you, so I know you know what it is.” 

Crowley’s frown deepened. “You explained it to me? What– what–?” 

“Come now, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about the unicorns?” Aziraphale said, starting to get rather exasperated. 

“What does that have to do with…?” Understanding bloomed on Crowley’s face, quickly followed by fury. “No.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, sitting back again and looking down at his hands, clenched together in his lap. 

“No. No, he– Gabriel–“ Crowley stammered incoherently for a moment longer, then snarled, “He raped you?” 

Aziraphale winced. “It… it’s nothing so dramatic as that.” 

“Did you want it, then?” 

Aziraphale winced again. “Well…” 

“Aziraphale…” 

Aziraphale didn’t respond. He had never said “no”, but then again… well. If he ever tried, then Gabriel would tell all of Heaven about the Arrangement, or at least what little of it he knew, though that was well more than enough to be damning, and if the rest of Heaven found out that Crowley was “corrupting” an angel… 

He couldn’t let that happen. 

“That fucking asssshole,” Crowley hissed, leaping to his feet. “I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna fucking _kill_ him–“ 

“No!” Aziraphale yelped, grabbing onto Crowley’s wrist and yanking him down onto the sofa beside him, panic flaring in his chest. “You will do _no such thing_ , that is exactly the sort of reckless behaviour that I was warning you against earlier!” 

“I can do it, I can get hellfire–“ Crowley began. 

“And what good can one demon’s worth of hellfire possibly do against the whole of the Heavenly Host?” Aziraphale demanded. “Gabriel is an Archangel. Even if I were to help you, there would be no possible way for you to defeat him. He’s much too powerful.” 

“Well, then, we’ll get someone else to do it!” Crowley said. “You’ve got to– there’s got to be someone who you can tell. One of the other Archangels? They won’t–“ 

“They already _know_ ,” Aziraphale said, only slightly surprised to hear the bitterness in his own voice, only halfway trying to squash it down. “Even if they didn’t, who do you think they would believe? The Lord’s Chosen Messenger, or a lowly Principality with a _reputation_?” 

Crowley stared at him, eyes fully snakey now. “Th-there has to be _something_ , angel. I can’t just… I can’t just let him _hurt_ you like this.” 

“Well, you needn’t worry about that,” Aziraphale said, hoping that his voice sounded comforting, though he knew he was quite likely missing the mark. “It’s not usually quite so violent.” 

Crowley’s face darkened. “ _Usually_? There’s a bloody _usually_?” 

Aziraphale nodded, noticing as he did so that, somehow, both of them had shifted until they were holding hands. He didn’t let go. “And, as I said, it isn’t normally so violent, so–“ 

“Wh– How often?” Crowley demanded. “How long?” 

“If I tell you, you’re going to torture yourself with worry over it,” Aziraphale said. 

“If you don’t tell me, I’m still gonna worry about it, and whatever I come up with to worry about is probably gonna be worse than what it actually is,” Crowley said quickly. “Please, angel, just _tell_ me.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s… almost every time I go to Gabriel’s office. About half of the time, when he visits me down here. And… and sometimes, when I’m Upstairs on other business, he’ll pull me aside. But… it’s rarely more than once a month. Usually less than that, actually.” 

Crowley looked like he was about to be sick. “And… how long?” 

“Crowley…” 

“How bloody long, angel?” 

“ _No_ , Crowley. If I tell you, I know you’ll do something stupid.” 

Crowley looked like he was about to be sick again. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it.” 

Aziraphale could only nod. 

“The Beginning?” 

“Not quite that long,” Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley’s hand gently. “Don’t you worry.” 

Somehow, that made Crowley look even worse. “It wasn’t…” 

“It wasn’t because of anything you did, dear, so don’t you start blaming yourself,” Aziraphale said. And it was true. Aziraphale’s stupidity and carelessness were in absolutely no way Crowley’s fault. He had to say something, some sort of explanation, something close enough to the truth that didn’t put Crowley in even more danger. “He… I suppose, Gabriel was… always rather blasé when it came to such things as personal space. Very... very touchy. With everyone, but... especially with me. And, well, it sort of escalated from there, and…” He made a small gesture with his hand. “It’s never exactly _pleasant_ , but it’s always over soon enough. And, well,” Aziraphale let out a little laugh, “it’s not _all_ bad. It means that Gabriel pays rather less attention than he should to my goings-on down here. And, sometimes, after, I can even make requests.” Aziraphale gestured again, a larger, more encompassing sort of thing. “That’s how I got the bookshop. Though we both know how well that went down–“ 

“Aziraphale, don’t,” Crowley said, his voice strained. “Please don’t… don’t act like this is… is no big deal, don’t pretend like it’s _okay_ , please–“ 

“What else would you have me do?” Aziraphale demanded, squeezing Crowley’s hand almost subconsciously. “There’s nothing I can _do_ about it. Nothing anyone can do.” 

“There _has_ to be something,” Crowley said. “I– surely Michael, or Uriel–“ 

“They _already know_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sighing. “I’m fairly certain that the whole Host knows. It’s frankly a wonder that I don’t have _more_ angels asking me for an education in the pleasures of the flesh, though I do think that might be partly Gabriel’s doing, as well. I doubt he likes to share.” 

That near-ill expression was back. “They wouldn’t…” 

“Again, I have quite the reputation Upstairs,” Aziraphale said. “I eat food, and I drink, and I collect material objects, and I spend all my time around humans.“ 

“That’s not– _none_ of that–“ 

“I know that, and you know that, but the rest of Heaven doesn’t,” Aziraphale said. “If I were to try and complain about Gabriel’s behaviour, it would be my word against his, and there is no possible way for me to win that fight.” 

“What about Her? She can’t be alright with this.” 

“I have to imagine She must be,” Aziraphale said softly. “After all, Gabriel hasn’t Fallen.” 

“That’s… bloody wanking bollocky bullshit,” Crowley snarled. “That– you– _fuck_ , Aziraphale!” 

“Crowley, please mind your language,” Aziraphale snapped. 

“You’re worried about my bloody _language_ while the Archangel fucking Gabriel is _raping_ you nearly every time you go Upstairs–“ Crowley yelled. 

“Crowley, _please_!” Aziraphale cried, hating the way his voice caught in his throat, hating the tears that built up in his eyes and blurred his vision. 

Crowley fell silent, eyes wide and lips parted, breathing heavily. 

“There is nothing to be done,” Aziraphale said, his voice quiet. “I have to bear this in whatever way I can. And there is simply no use in getting upset over something that neither of us can change.” 

“How?” Crowley was nearly begging. “How can you just… just _accept_ it? How are you so bloody _calm_?” 

“You said it yourself,” Aziraphale said. “I can hardly descend into hysterics every time I go Upstairs, or every time Gabriel comes here. I have to keep going. I don’t have a choice _but_ to be alright.” 

Crowley was silent for a long, long moment. Then he asked, quietly, “Why didn’t you heal it?” 

Aziraphale shuddered. “It’s considered frivolous to heal minor injuries like these. I do prefer to avoid reprimands whenever possible.” 

“Frivolous,” Crowley scoffed. “Bloody wanker.” 

“ _Crowley_.” 

“Just being honest, angel. But… is it… is it just the miracle, then? He’s not– he’s not gonna hurt you worse if he finds out that you’re better?” 

“No, but I don’t see how–“ 

“I could do it,” Crowley said. “I could heal you, I mean. I just… I hate seeing you in pain, angel. And I want… I want to help. If I can.” 

Aziraphale blinked. Blinked again. “I suppose… so long as the miracle doesn’t actually come from me…” Then he frowned. “But won’t you get in trouble? For healing an angel?” 

“Head office doesn’t track our miracles,” said Crowley. “So long as I don’t go shouting about it, no one will know.” 

Aziraphale bit his lip, then winced. He hadn’t entirely realised how sore it was, how he’d been worrying over the same marks that Gabriel had left not long ago. 

“Alright,” he said, his voice quiet. “I suppose, if… if that’s alright with you… I wouldn’t mind it. If you healed it.” 

Crowley very nearly _beamed_ at that, and the warmth of a healing miracle flowed through their conjoined hands, soothing the aches on Aziraphale’s face and neck and chest, in his throat, on his thighs and rear, between his legs. Aziraphale sighed in relief, leaning back against the sofa cushions and closing his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, and for once, Crowley didn’t tell him off for it. 

“You can… you can come to me,” Crowley said. “When it… when he… I know I can’t… can’t really do much, but it might… I dunno. It might help.” 

“I do,” Aziraphale said. “I always have. When it’s… normally, he doesn’t leave any injuries where they might be seen. Today was a bad day. But even when he did… as soon as I was put together enough, I would find you. And it… it made it better. It always did.” Aziraphale smiled slightly. “You didn’t really think that Paris was about crêpes, did you?” 

“No, I… not really, no,” Crowley said. “I, um. I’m glad I can help.” 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said again. “Do you think… do you think we could… do something?” 

“What sort of thing did you have in mind?” Crowley asked. 

“Anything. Dinner, a drink, a walk. Anything at all. Just… something _normal_ , so we don’t have to think about it for a little bit.” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand once more, then pulled his free. “If that’s alright?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah. ‘Course it’s alright. Dinner sounds good, yeah? I can get us a reservation at the Merchant’s Hotel? They had that steak thing that you liked.” 

“That sounds _lovely_ , my dear,” Aziraphale said. 

And it was. 

They talked, and laughed, and teased each other, and eventually, with enough wine and time, the tension in Crowley’s face and the set of his shoulders eased, until things felt normal again. And that was good. Normal was good. Normal was excellent. 

Normal meant that Aziraphale would have to face Gabriel again, but not now. Not yet. Here, now, he was with Crowley. He was safe. And they didn’t have to think about it at all. 

### 

Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Every time Aziraphale went to Heaven, every time Aziraphale’s Light vanished from the Earth for a while, Crowley knew, and it tore him apart. He kept thinking about it. There had to be a way to stop it. There had to be _something_ he could do, some way to protect Aziraphale, some way to keep him safe. He racked his brain, scoured his otherworldly connections, even read a bloody illuminated manuscript on angelology, but he couldn’t find anything powerful enough to stop an Archangel. 

Nothing except for hellfire, of course. 

But if he were to march on Heaven with hellfire… It would be the death of him, Crowley knew. Aziraphale was right, and Crowley may have been a lot of things, but suicidal was not one of them. He was absolutely no use to Aziraphale dead. That would just leave his angel alone, and that was _undoubtedly_ worse. He couldn’t take Gabriel down directly, but still. There had to be _something_. 

Over the next ten years, Aziraphale came to him three times with bruises on his neck in the shape of thick fingers, with scratches running down his back and tears deep inside of him, and each time, Crowley healed him, hating the thought of Aziraphale having faced that alone for so long, hating himself for being so utterly useless, hating Gabriel most of all for _daring_ to hurt his angel. 

Not that there was a damn thing Crowley could do about it. 

Aziraphale seemed completely normal. Completely fine. Even when he was beaten and bruised and bleeding and _used_ , Aziraphale still laughed and teased and acted like _nothing whatsoever_ was wrong, and Crowley hated that even more, somehow, hated that this was all so bloody _normal_ for him. 

Crowley drank a lot, those ten years. 

And then Hell pulled him down for a performance review, and he had to listen to Beelzebub droning on and on, and he had to deal with Hastur’s leer and Ligur’s looming and Dagon’s literally-sharklike grin, and he realised– if he was going to protect Aziraphale, he needed to be able to protect himself, too. He knew he would do whatever it took to keep them both safe, but just as there was only one thing that could properly kill an angel (in the way Gabriel deserved to bloody die, but he _couldn’t_ , Crowley was helpless, just like always, and it was slowly killing him), there was only one thing that could kill demons. And there was really only one way for him to get it. 

Crowley asked Aziraphale for holy water, and Aziraphale flipped out, and they both said a whole lot of things they probably didn’t mean, and Crowley slunk back home and went to sleep. 

He woke up sixty years later, with the world dancing madly on the brink of collapse, and couldn’t bring himself to see Aziraphale again. 

It was selfish, he knew it, and every time he felt Aziraphale vanish from the Earth he drank himself into a stupor, knowing what was happening to his angel, but he just couldn’t _do_ it. Couldn’t stand by and watch while Aziraphale was hurt. Couldn’t just do _nothing_ , knowing that Gabriel was up there doing whatever the fuck he wanted with absolutely no consequences. And Crowley still didn’t have holy water. The forces of Hell weren’t nearly upset enough at him for having slept for so long– it was almost like they didn’t know it had happened, and Crowley wasn’t quite sure _how_ , surely someone had noticed that he just hadn’t sent in a single report for sixty bloody years, although he wasn’t about to complain about it– and without some sort of protection, some sort of insurance… 

It was too dangerous, really, to keep seeing Aziraphale. To have to watch him hurt. It was... fuck, it was just too bloody _hard_ , and Crowley was weak and selfish and didn’t want to face him again, didn’t want to have to look at the face of his failures. 

And then Aziraphale nearly got himself discorporated, and Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t just knowing that if Aziraphale lost his body, he’d be sent back up to Heaven– to _Gabriel_ – and who the heaven even knew how long it would take him to get back down again. No, it was more than that. Crowley bloody _missed_ him, missed his smile, his laugh, the way his eyes almost changed colour sometimes, the little wiggle he did when he was satisfied with himself, the way he’d sought Crowley out when he needed something, needed normalcy, needed _comfort_. 

Crowley couldn’t change Aziraphale’s plight. Couldn’t do shit against Gabriel. 

But he could still be there for Aziraphale. He could do normalcy. He could do comfort. And if that was what Aziraphale needed… 

And so Crowley walked on consecrated ground, danced down the aisle of a church towards his angel, and saved his books from some half-witted Nazis. 

And the way Aziraphale had _looked_ at him, oh, it made Crowley feel like he was flying, and he’d had to check for a moment as he led them both back to the Bentley that he hadn’t popped his wings accidentally. (He hadn’t.) 

Aziraphale had cooed over the car, looking up at Crowley, the books clutches close to his chest. “Is it new?” 

“Sort of,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Got her 1933, fresh off the line. She’s pretty, isn’t she?” 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale said, and he sounded genuine, sounded _happy_ , and oh, _fuck_ , Crowley had missed him so much. 

“Best part? No horses,” Crowley said, opening the door for Aziraphale and letting him clamber in. “Still at the bookshop, then?” 

“I am,” Aziraphale confirmed, and Crowley slid in and drove them over, trying his best to keep his speed fairly reasonable– he didn’t want to terrify Aziraphale, not now, not when he’d _just_ got him back. 

The reached the shop far too soon, and Crowley pulled up outside, not sure of what to do next. 

“I know I… I know I shouldn’t,” Aziraphale said, turning to Crowley, “but… thank you.” 

“Ngh,” Crowley muttered. “S’no problem.” 

They sat there for another moment, the silence heavy with things unsaid. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley blurted out, at the same time that Aziraphale said, “I missed you.” 

Crowley froze. “You... missed me?” 

Aziraphale nodded, his gaze falling to the bag of books, still cradled in his lap, and then jerking away suddenly, and Crowley didn’t know what _that_ was about. 

“I, um. I missed you, too,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale looked back over at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He looked... shocked? Afraid? Excited? Crowley couldn’t tell. 

“Would you… would you like to come inside?” Aziraphale offered. “I have a few bottles of wine, still, that have survived the rations.” 

Oh, Crowley could have collapsed in relief. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds… sounds good. Yeah. Let’s.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale said, and climbed out of the Bentley, leading Crowley back into the shop. 

It was like he’d never left. Still dusty, still warm, still smelling of old books and leather and sandalwood and sunshine. 

Crowley’s eyes darted around the shop, taking it all in, and landed on some books that definitely hadn’t been there before. 

“Who’s Oscar Wilde?” Crowley asked, sauntering into the back room, and Aziraphale’s face _lit up_. 

They passed the night swapping tales of debauchery, Crowley telling Aziraphale about his stint in America in the ‘20’s and Aziraphale making Crowley near-apoplectic with his stories from his gentlemen’s club towards the end of the century, and things shifted back to normal. 

Aziraphale didn’t come to Crowley with injuries to heal anymore, but he did install a phone in the bookshop and call him up from time to time, sometimes right after Crowley could feel that he’d returned to Earth. It was good. It was better than nothing. Better than Crowley not being there at all, that was for damn sure. 

But Crowley couldn’t just _forget_. 

He knew it was still happening. And he could see the toll that everything was taking on Aziraphale. He’d always been nervous, but now, his fretting seemed to have reached new heights. He was paler, and more drawn, and it was harder to get him to laugh, to smile, to relax. 

They needed an out. Crowley needed a plan. And he needed a way to protect them both from both sides. And so a caper was born, and it was dangerous and stupid but it was also his only option, and if Crowley relished in the borderline James Bond-y aspects of it, well, that was his business, wasn’t it? 

But then, one neon-lit night in Soho, nearly a hundred and five years to the day after their first argument about it, Crowley held a tartan-patterned thermos and stared at the angel that he had loved for nearly six thousand years and realised with a sudden, gut-wrenching clarity that Aziraphale loved him, too. 

He had to. There wasn’t any other reason for him to do this. He hadn’t wanted to give Crowley the holy water, he’d made that incredibly plain, and they hadn’t spoken for eighty years because of it, and now here Aziraphale was, handing it over with a warning not to unscrew the cap. He still didn’t want to give it to him, but he was doing it anyways, and there was only one reason that made any sense, and it made Crowley’s heart bloody _soar_ (and a part of him felt bad for making fun of so many poets for that phrase, because, honestly? What a fucking feeling). 

The offer spilled out of him before he could stop it, not that he wanted to. “Can I drop you anywhere?” _Don’t leave me. Please, don’t go. I can protect you, I can protect both of us, I can keep you_ safe _, just stay with me, let me help you_. 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale had said, and Crowley hadn’t been able to stop his frown showing on his face. 

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale had continued, his voice soft. “Maybe someday we could… I don’t know… go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” 

And Crowley thought he knew what Aziraphale was saying. _There will be other chances. We will have more time. But not right now. Not yet._

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley said, “anywhere you wanna go.” _Why not now? I can protect you, now. Thanks to this, thanks to what you’ve done, what you’ve given me. This is our chance. We should take it._

Aziraphale had stared at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears, and breathed in a trembling voice, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” 

And then he’d gone, shutting the door behind him, leaving Crowley alone with the thermos clutched in his hands and the echo of his words, and the layers of meaning behind them. 

_Not yet. I’m not ready. This is too much. It’s not safe._

_Please wait. I’ll be ready someday, but not yet. Please wait. Don’t leave me._

Crowley sat in his car for an unconscionably long time, pain and sorrow and wild, rampant hope completely overwhelming him. 

And after that… things continued as normal. Eating and drinking and talking together, spending time with one another, and if Crowley just so happened to drop by every time Aziraphale got back from Heaven with a treat or tickets to something or a bottle of wine and a ridiculous story, well, that was just how these things went sometimes, wasn’t it? 

They didn’t talk about Gabriel, not even when Aziraphale showed up on Crowley’s door one day with a black eye and a split lip and bleeding bite marks on his thighs and his wrists chafed like they’d been tied together, and they didn’t talk about that night, not even as the end of the world hurtled ever closer. 

And then they got far, far closer to that than either of them had ever wanted, and then it was over, and Crowley and Aziraphale were riding the bus back to London, their hands clasped tightly together, and Crowley couldn’t help but think of that day, back in 1852, when his whole world had turned upside-down. 

When they got back to Crowley’s flat, he poured them both a glass of whiskey before sitting down beside Aziraphale on the sofa, subtly miracling it to be a little bit more comfortable than before. 

“They’ll come for us,” Aziraphale said softly, worrying the scrap of prophecy between his fingers. “Heaven and Hell, I mean. They won’t… they won’t let us get away with what we’ve done.” 

“Do you think Heaven will do something?” Crowley asked. “They don’t seem too keen on _consequences_.” His voice was bitter, and he smacked himself mentally. _Get a grip. Aziraphale needs you_. 

Aziraphale let out an equally-bitter laugh. “They… they’ll definitely… it won’t be pleasant. Gabriel was… whenever I was… reticent, Gabriel was quite fond of reminding me what the consequences of disobedience could be. I’ve attended hellfire executions in the past. That… that will probably be it for me, I think. Make a proper example out of me.” 

Crowley took that information and shoved it down into the pit in his mind where he put all of the information he knew about how Heaven operated nowadays. “Right. I, um, I killed Ligur, so Hell will… they’ll be pissed at me. I don’t know how they’d get holy water, but… but I wouldn’t put it past them.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “You killed Ligur? Did you– did you discorporate him, or…?” 

“No, I properly killed him,” Crowley said. “Think what was left of him is pretty much soaked into the carpet by now, but his coat is still in the entry to my office.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You used the holy water.” 

“It saved my life,” Crowley said, reaching out to take Aziraphale’s hand again. “He and Hastur were after me for losing the Antichrist, and that holy water absolutely saved my hide. _Thank you_.” 

Aziraphale was staring at him, eyes wide and damp, and Crowley flashed back to a neon-lit car parked outside of a bar in Soho. 

“I was so afraid,” Aziraphale breathed. “When I gave it to you. I was so scared that… that one day, you’d… give up. Decide to use it. And I couldn’t… I _couldn’t_ –“ 

“Hang on,” Crowley said, frowning, a terrible sort of understanding beginning to dawn on him. “You thought I’d use it on _myself_?” 

“I was so afraid,” Aziraphale said again, his voice breaking. 

“No,” Crowley said, shaking his head fervently, reaching for Aziraphale’s free hand with his and clutching it tightly. “No, never. I never– I never wanted that. It was just protection. Just insurance. Why would you think–“ 

And the understanding settled into place, leaving Crowley feeling coldly nauseous. “Why would you think I would?” 

Aziraphale stared down at their hands, a flush rising on his cheeks. “It… I don’t know. It’s… it’s what…” 

“It’s what you would have done,” Crowley said. “If you’d had hellfire.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and sucked in a shaky breath. “It… it wasn’t often, you must know.” 

“Like how it ‘wasn’t often’ that Gabriel got violent?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale flinched, and Crowley’s heart twisted in his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–“ 

“No, no, don’t– it’s alright,” Aziraphale said. “You’re right. It’s just… you know. When he was… when it was particularly bad. I would have… There were times when I would have given anything for it to stop. And if that meant walking into hellfire, well…” Aziraphale took another deep breath, then looked up at Crowley, and his gaze was almost painfully earnest. “But then I would find you, and it… it was alright again. It was worth it, if it meant I got to be down here, with you. If it meant we were both safe.” 

“Angel…” Crowley breathed. “I could never… I couldn’t _do_ anything–“ 

“You were you,” Aziraphale said. “Clever and funny and ridiculous and charming. You were yourself, and you would talk and laugh and drink with me, and that made _everything_ worth it.” 

Crowley felt a blush rising up in his face, and he squirmed a little, staring down at their hands. “Nghh, _Aziraphale_ …” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and then one of his hands was pulling free, reaching up to cup Crowley’s face, to tilt his chin up so that he was looking Aziraphale in the eyes once again as he continued. “You _saved_ me, more times than I can possibly count. Paris, the Blitz, Wessex, Sumer, Babel, Sodom,” his voice broke slightly on that one, and Crowley squeezed his hand tighter, “the bookshop opening, a hundred thousand other instances throughout all of our time together. I _love_ you, and it is loving you that has kept me sane, has kept me _alive_ , for thousands of years.” 

Crowley felt as though he were about to burst, or melt, or cry, or maybe all three, as he jerked his glasses off and threw them aside and his hands flew up to cradle Aziraphale’s face as well, running his thumbs over those soft, beloved cheeks and nearly sobbing out his words. “Fuck, Aziraphale, I love you, I love you too, I’ve loved you for six thousand bloody years, since the beginning, since the Garden, I love you _so much_.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed again, his voice almost aching with emotion, as he tugged Crowley closer, slipping an arm around his waist and pressing their foreheads together ever so gently. “I don’t… I don’t know how much longer we have. I don’t know if we’ll survive. But I had to tell you, love. Everything you’ve done for me, and I… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Crowley.” 

“No, don’t be sorry,” Crowley said, clutching Aziraphale tighter in lieu of shaking his head, one of his hands slipping up into Aziraphale’s feather-soft curls. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“I was so sure,” Aziraphale breathed, closing his eyes. “Even after _everything_ , even after all those years of Gabriel… I was still so _certain_ that they would help, Crowley, and then they didn’t, and I hurt you, and I’m so sorry, I’m so terribly sorry.” 

“We’ve both done our fair share of hurting each other, yeah?” Crowley said. “But it’s over now. We’re on our own side. And nobody, not even bloody Gabriel, is gonna take that from us. I promise, I swear to you, I will keep you safe, even if I have to go up to bloody Heaven myself to do it.” 

“Crowley–“ Aziraphale began. 

Then he froze, his eyes flying wide, and then sat up so quickly that Crowley nearly toppled forwards. 

“Wha–“ he stammered. 

“Crowley, you’re a _genius_!” Aziraphale cried, a smile splitting his face. 

Crowley frowned. “Last time I said something like that you yelled at me for ten minutes about it.” 

“Yes, well, last time you said that we didn’t have this,” Aziraphale said, snatching up the scrap of prophecy. “It’s like it says. ‘Choose our faces wisely’. So if we traded bodies, and you go to Heaven, and I go to Hell…” 

“Holy water won’t kill you, and hellfire won’t kill me,” Crowley finished, staring at Aziraphale. “Fuck.” 

Aziraphale was still beaming. “That’s it! Oh, Crowley, I could _kiss_ you right now–“ 

Crowley froze, his jaw dropping. After six thousand years… 

Aziraphale stared at him, the faint flush of happiness draining away. “Oh. Oh. I– I’m sorry, I didn’t– I didn’t mean– of course, if you don’t want to, then I–“ 

“Fuck, _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley groaned, lurching forwards to press their lips together. 

Aziraphale was soft, and warm, and he tasted like sunlight and wine and Earl Gray and _home_ , and Crowley groaned into the kiss as Aziraphale melted against him, pulling him close like he never meant to let go. Almost unconsciously, Crowley parted his lips, and Aziraphale deepened the kiss, letting Crowley drink from the well of him after six thousand years alone in the desert. Jerusalem had _nothing_ on _this_. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back only to press their foreheads together again, one of his hands tangled in Crowley’s hair and the other wrapped around his waist. “Oh, Crowley, I love you. I love you _so much_.” 

In lieu of responding, Crowley tilted his head forwards again, catching Aziraphale’s lips once more, warm and a little wet and, _oh_ , Crowley could do this forever. Hands cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks once more, pulling him close, deepening the kiss even further. Crowley had kissed a lot of people over the course of six thousand years, but it had _never_ felt like this. Those kisses were pale imitations of the sheer joy wrapped up in Aziraphale’s lips. 

After a long moment, what could have been a few minutes or could have been days, Aziraphale pulled back again, panting. “Crowley. We have to… we have to swap. I’ve no idea how long we have.” 

He was right, of course, but that didn’t mean that Crowley wanted to stop kissing him. 

Instead of further indulging, though, Crowley straightened up, letting go of Aziraphale’s face only to hold his hand out again. “Right. You’re right. Let’s… try it then, yeah?” 

And so they did, and it _worked_. 

Crowley ended up in Heaven, standing awkwardly in Gabriel’s office with his hands tied together in front of him, waiting. He didn’t particularly want to sit down on the chair, or lean on the desk, or really touch anything. 

This was where it had happened most often. That was what Aziraphale said, almost two hundred years ago. Almost every time he was up here, in this very room, Gabriel raped him. 

One time, Crowley had asked where in the bookshop Gabriel had done it, and Aziraphale had refused to answer. There was a part of Crowley that was grateful for it. If he had known… 

Well. In this room, there was no escaping it. Gabriel had raped Aziraphale in here, over and over and over again, sometimes incredibly violently, and now Crowley was here in his angel’s place, probably for one last brutal round of it before Aziraphale’s trial. 

Crowley stared at the embossed golden plaque on the front of Gabriel’s desk, disgust curdling in his stomach. 

Then the door opened, and Crowley spun around, straightening up and staring at the intruder. 

Gabriel. 

He closed the door behind himself, then smiled, a broad, corporate smile that didn’t reach his icy violet eyes. 

“Aziraphale,” he said. “What am I going to do with you?” 

Crowley didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. It was taking all of his willpower not to shift into a snake then and there and tear Gabriel’s stupid fucking throat out. 

He didn’t know what turning into a snake would do to Aziraphale’s body, though, and besides, that would give the whole thing away. He couldn’t risk it. Just like bloody always. Crowley couldn’t do _anything_. 

No. That wasn’t true. He was here. He was Up Here, instead of Aziraphale, and he would make sure that Aziraphale was safe, no matter what. He could ensure that Gabriel never, _ever_ touched Aziraphale again. 

“You’ve got a choice here, sunshine,” Gabriel said, walking closer, crowding Crowley up against the desk. “No one up here is happy with you right now, myself included. But we both know that I have… influence. And, I’ll be honest, I’ve had fun over the past… what’s it been, now, four thousand years?” 

Crowley almost choked at that, almost _reacted_ , but that would have given everything away. 

_Four thousand fucking years_? 

Gabriel was still talking, completely oblivious to the minor breakdown Crowley was having. “I’d hate to have to throw that away over something stupid. I can give you a new posting, here in Heaven. You never have to go to Earth again. I can protect you from the rest of the angels, and you just have to keep doing what you’ve been doing for me already. How does that sound?” 

Crowley just stared at Gabriel, completely dumbfounded, thrown off in about eight different ways at once. That he would– that he would even _suggest_ – 

“No,” Crowley said. “No, Gabriel, I don’t– I won’t– no.” 

Gabriel’s gaze turned stormy, his violet eyes darkening. “What was that?” 

“ _No_ ,” Crowley said again, more forcefully this time, shaking his head firmly. “No, I won’t accept your… your _proposition_. Absolutely not.” 

“You know better than to say no to me,” Gabriel growled, pressing up against Crowley and grabbing his bound wrists. 

“You have _nothing_ to hold over my head any longer,” Crowley snapped, pulling against Gabriel’s grip. “Nothing to threaten me with. Nothing you say can _possibly_ convince me.” 

“You…” Gabriel stared down at him, arching an eyebrow. “This is about _him_ , isn’t it? How many times have I told you, he _doesn’t love you back_. He’s a _demon_ , he’s not capable of it!” 

Crowley felt as though his borrowed stomach had dropped to somewhere around the Second Circle. How the hell did Gabriel _know_? 

“You’re wrong,” Crowley forced out against the lump building in his throat. “You’re wrong, Gabriel, Crowley–“ 

Gabriel reached up and grabbed a fistful of snow-white curls, yanking so hard that Crowley cried out. 

“Four thousand years of this, and you’re still clinging to that feeble hope. If he hasn’t made a move after all that time, I hate to break it to you, it’s not going to happen. And why would he? _Look_ at you. Anything he did try would be barely more than a pity fuck. There’s no way that he could _love_ you. He’s in Hell right now, by the way, I know you saw that, about to go for a nice relaxing swim in some holy water. I warned you not to disobey, I warned you not to succumb to his _temptations_ , I warned you what would happen to him if you did, and _still_ , you ignored me. Well, it’s time to face the music, sunshine. You have _nothing_ left for you on Earth, not even that _scum_ you’ve been protecting, and your only other option is your own execution. Are you _sure_ you’d rather _die_?” 

And Crowley knew the answer to that last question, even as literally everything before it completely failed to process. He’d heard that answer just last night, and it had made him sick with fear. _There were times when I would have given anything for it to stop. And if that meant walking into hellfire, well…_

“Yes,” he said, his voice low, only wavering slightly. “I would.” 

Gabriel froze, staring at Crowley, his mouth falling open. 

Then he snarled and lunged forwards, catching Crowley’s– _Aziraphale’s_ – mouth in a bruising, biting, painful kiss, and Crowley cried out, trying desperately to wrench his head way, fighting against the vicelike grip that Gabriel had on his hair, helpless in the Archangel’s grasp and _knowing_ that Aziraphale had faced this and worse countless times. 

After far too long, Gabriel drew back, glaring at him, eyes dark with fury and lust. “You’re going to fucking regret that.” 

Then he– then he _left_. Stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him. 

Crowley stayed where he was, pressed up against the desk, his breath coming in short gasps, his mouth tingling with the lavender and ozone taste of Gabriel, his borrowed heart pounding in his ears. 

_Fuck_. 

Gabriel had known about… whatever was between them. He’d known that Aziraphale loved Crowley, and from the sound of it he’d known for way longer than Crowley had. He’d known about it, and he’d… what? Used it to blackmail Aziraphale? To _rape_ him, for _four thousand fucking years_? 

He must have done. There was no other way to make sense of… all of that. 

Crowley felt like he was about to be sick. Aziraphale had gone through four thousand bloody years, apparently, of being _raped_ on a regular basis, seemingly because of him. _Why_? Why would he do that? 

Why wouldn’t he tell Crowley? 

Two angels that Crowley didn’t recognise came to fetch him a few minutes later, dragging him into a massive, empty room and tying him to a chair. 

Crowley was expecting a trail. The Fallen had gotten a trial– he remembered it all too well. It had been a mass trial, all of them at once, and they hadn’t gotten a chance to say a single word in their defense, but at least there was _something_ , a listing of charges, an audience, a judgement from On High. 

Aziraphale didn’t get a trial. He got a summary execution. Gabriel acted like he hadn’t just offered to pull Aziraphale from Earth and rape him whenever he wanted, and he told him to “shut up and die already”, and it took all of Crowley’s already-strained self-control not to lob enough hellfire at all of the Archangels to kill them properly, make them feel even a _fraction_ of the pain that they’d caused Aziraphale. 

_What good can one demon’s worth of hellfire possibly do against the whole of the Heavenly Host?_

Aziraphale’s voice echoed in his mind, and Crowley dragged the fire back, pulling it into himself, letting it burn just under his skin as he stepped out of the column of flame. He couldn’t kill the Archangels, no matter how much he wanted to. 

But, finally, _finally_ , he _could_ protect Aziraphale. 

Gabriel staggered back again. “Aziraphale– _Aziraphale_!” 

“What do you want?” Uriel said, clutching Gabriel’s sleeve. 

“Let me return to Earth,” Crowley said, standing up straight, his hands folded calmly in front of himself, the only sign that anything was off the faint flickers of flames dancing between his fingers. “Leave me alone. And, Gabriel, if you _ever_ come near me again…” Crowley paused, just for a second. He couldn’t just straight-up threaten to kill Gabriel, not as Aziraphale. His angel would never be so vulgar as all that. “Well. As I said earlier, you have absolutely nothing to hold over my head any longer.” 

“Fine,” Gabriel said. “Fine. Whatever you want.” 

“Don’t hurt anyone,” Uriel said. 

Gabriel nodded, straightening up, seemingly glad to have a condition he could insist upon. “We’ll let you go back to your little mud puddle, as long as you swear not to hurt any of us on your way out.” 

Crowley smiled, Aziraphale’s soft, bitter smile, the one that he’d last seen just under two hundred years ago. “I’m not like you. I have no interest in hurting anyone.” 

Then, before any of the Archangels could change their minds, Crowley turned and walked out, making his way back down to Earth and Aziraphale once more. 

### 

Aziraphale was happier than he’d ever been. He and Crowley survived, and went to the Ritz, and they were _safe_ and _free_ and _happy_. Crowley even ate something– “must have been the stint in your body, angel, left me famished for some reason”– and then they headed back to the bookshop, and Aziraphale puttered around the shelves, glancing over everything, just to make sure that it was all there. As far as he could tell, it was, but he would of course have to do a more detailed inventory soon, and find something to do with those new presents from Adam, they didn’t quite fit into the collection but Aziraphale felt almost bad about getting rid of them, and– 

“Angel, come _sit down_ ,” Crowley called from the sofa in the back room. “I’m getting tired just _watching_ you. Let’s have a drink, yeah?” 

“If you insist,” Aziraphale said, beaming at Crowley and settling down beside him. Crowley conjured up a bottle of wine and two glasses from the cellar and kitchenette respectively, and poured for them both. 

“I almost can’t believe it,” Aziraphale said, taking a small sip before leaning back against the cushions. “That we’re free. That it worked.” 

“I know,” Crowley said, reaching out and taking one of Aziraphale’s hands in his, squeezing it gently, before letting go. 

There was a moment of comfortable silence– or, well, it would have been comfortable, if Crowley wasn’t staring at Aziraphale quite so intently. 

“Dear,” Aziraphale said softly, “are you–“ 

And then he realised. Crowley had been in Heaven, in Aziraphale’s body. The Archangels had thought he was Aziraphale. 

_Gabriel_ had thought he was Aziraphale. 

“Oh, Lord,” Aziraphale breathed. “Dear, I’ve been– I’m so sorry. Did Gabriel–?” 

“No,” Crowley said immediately, shaking his head. “No, he didn’t– I mean, he kissed me, that was vile, but he didn’t– nothing else. But he also… he said some stuff, and I… can we talk about it, now? Please?” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, then nodded. Whatever Gabriel had said about it… it couldn’t have been good. The look on Crowley’s face, worried and tense and sad, only further confirmed it. 

“I almost hate to ask,” Aziraphale said, “but if you could tell me exactly what he said…” 

“It was… it… _four thousand years_?” Crowley asked. “He said it was almost four thousand years, that he’d been…” 

Aziraphale nodded. “I could tell you the exact number, but yes, four thousand is… is just about it.” 

“What is it?” Crowley asked, sounding almost desperate. “The exact number, what is it?” 

Aziraphale swallowed, almost nervous. “Three… three thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-six. It… it started…” 

“Sodom,” Crowley said softly. “That would have been 1907 BC, that was… that was Sodom.” 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“So it was my fault,” Crowley breathed. “It was because of _me_ –“ 

“No!” Aziraphale protested immediately, grabbing onto Crowley’s hand and holding it tightly, as though he could use it to pull the demon out of whatever spiral he was falling down. “No, Crowley, it was _absolutely_ not your fault, this was _exactly_ why I didn’t tell you, I won’t have you blaming yourself for _any_ of this.” 

“But it… even if I didn’t _cause_ it, it was to do with me,” Crowley said. “At least, that’s what he said, while I was up there…” 

Aziraphale sighed. “It, um. Well... well.” 

“You can tell me.” 

“Only if you promise not to… to feel _guilty_ , or something else idiotic like that, over a thing that you didn’t even know was happening for more than three thousand years,” Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley’s hand. 

Crowley swallowed heavily, then nodded. “Alright. I… I’ll do my best.” 

Aziraphale nodded. That was the best he was going to get. And, well, if Crowley looked to be working himself up over this, Aziraphale ought to be able to comfort him. “Right. It, um. Well. It…” 

He trailed off, slowly. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Crowley said. “Not if you don’t want to.” 

“I…” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I think I do. Or, at the very least, I want you to know the truth. I’ve just… I’ve never… never talked to _anyone_ about this. It’s…” He took another breath. “It’s... somewhat uncharted territory, I suppose.” 

“That’s alright,” Crowley said, his thumb beginning to rub comforting circles into the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Just… the beginning, I guess. Well, not the Beginning-beginning, I already know that bit, you know, but… when it started.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “It, um. It _was_ just after Sodom. You had… I know how angry you were, how _furious_ , with the Almighty and with the whole Host and with me… but you found me anyways, and you sat beside me, and you helped to wash the soot out of my robe, and you helped to clean up the mess those awful men had left behind, and… well. I can’t… I can’t say when exactly I fell in love with you, but… if it hadn’t already happened by then, that would have been what did me in.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “And then you brought me to that inn, and you left, and… and Gabriel appeared almost immediately. He had… he had seen. And he sensed my... my love.” 

Crowley was staring at Aziraphale, and with his glasses on his face was almost unreadable, and Aziraphale could feel tears building in his own eyes and he didn’t know _why_ , he had never actually cried before in six thousand years (however close he may have come on a few recent occasions), and he had already lived these memories, had actually experienced them, _why_ was he falling apart now? 

He had to keep going. He owed Crowley this explanation. “He, um. He dragged me up to his office, and… and threatened to bring me before all of the Archangels. I was _succumbing to temptation_ , he said, and they would have executed me for that if She didn’t see fit to make me Fall, and I almost… I was shocked a-and useless, I hadn’t even realised that I loved you yet, I was just… and then he said that Heaven would punish _you_ , too, for tempting an angel, and– and I _couldn’t_ let that happen, I couldn’t _bear_ –“ 

The tears that had been building spilled over, and Aziraphale choked on a sob, reaching desperately for Crowley, and Crowley was there, drawing him in, holding him close, an arm around his waist and a hand at the back of his head, dark wings appearing suddenly, mantling around them both, wrapping them up in a cocoon of darkness and warmth and safety, and Aziraphale buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck and tried not to cry. 

“He promised… not to say anything,” Aziraphale continued, voice wobbling dangerously. “To cover for me, even, with the other Archangels, at least a little bit. So long as… so long as things between you and I didn’t go any further, and he could… do whatever he wanted, with me.” _Whatever he wanted_ … 

Aziraphale clutched Crowley tighter, and Crowley pressed a kiss to his temple, wings drawing in tighter around them. 

“You did that all for me,” Crowley breathed. “All of that, four thousand _years_ , all to protect me. I can’t… bloody heav– bloody _somewhere_ , angel, I can’t even _imagine_ –“ 

“I couldn’t let them hurt you,” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t _bear_ it. Not for me. Not for… you didn’t even _know_. You wouldn’t have even known why. And so I did it, I did, I let him do whatever he wanted, and I tried–“ he was falling apart again, a pillar of salt in the desert, crumbling under the wind, and he was helpless to stop the words pouring out of him, helpless again, as he had been for nearly four thousand years– “I tried, Crowley, I tried to protect you, but I _couldn’t_ , I loved you too much, I couldn’t stay away, not even to keep you safe, and I was _selfish_ and _weak_ and _useless_ and I just _couldn’t_ –“ 

“Hey, hey, shh,” Crowley breathed, kissing Aziraphale’s temple again and rubbing small, soothing circles into his back. “You’re not any of that. You’re… fuck, I can’t even believe how strong you are. You’re bloody incredible, angel. That… you went through four thousand years of rape and abuse just to try and keep me safe, that’s not selfish or weak or any of that nonsense, that is _so incredibly brave_ , angel, I love you _so much_.” 

“He would always… when I made a mistake,” Aziraphale said. “When I was… when I didn’t do what he wanted me to do, he would threaten to tell the Archangels about you, and it always worked, I did _anything_ he wanted me to do, Crowley…” 

“I know,” Crowley breathed. “It’s over now, angel, I promise you. It’s over. He’s never gonna get _near_ you again. I won’t let him. You’re _safe_. It’s over, and I’ve got you, and you’re safe now, I promise.” 

And at that, Aziraphale broke. He clutched desperately at Crowley’s jacket, sobbing into his shoulder, while Crowley held him close, shielded them both from the world, rubbing small, soothing circles into Aziraphale’s back and whispering gentle words into his ear. “I’ve got you. Let it out. You’re safe now. I’m here. Let it out, angel. Let it out. You’re safe.” 

Eventually, eventually, it eased, passing from noisy sobs to quiet, hitching breaths, and Aziraphale lifted his head, looking Crowley in the eye. His glasses had vanished, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure when, but he was unspeakably grateful to see those beautiful golden eyes, to know that their owner was here and safe and whole and finally, _finally_ out from under Hell’s thumb and Heaven’s deadly scrutiny. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale breathed as he spotted the damp patch on the new jacket, a flush of shame creeping up his neck. 

Crowley shook his head, one hand reaching out to brush Aziraphale’s cheek with his fingers, cup his jaw, wipe away a few lingering tears. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault, angel. None of it was your fault.” 

“If I had been more careful… I put you in danger, Crowley, so many times…” 

“And you got me out of it how much more often?” Crowley asked. “Angel, listen to me. _Nothing_ that Gabriel did to you, nothing that he threatened to do to me, absolutely _none of it_ was your fault. You are so unbelievably brave, withstanding it for so long. That you took all of that to protect me… fuck, I can’t even explain… I love you _so much_ , Aziraphale, I always have and I always will, and you are so bloody strong, and it _was not your fault_.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, falling forwards again, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s and clutching him close. 

“I’m here,” Crowley said, a quiet promise in the words. “I’m here.” 

They stayed there for a long, long moment, just holding one another, breathing together, _being_ together, safe and free and incredibly, painfully aware of what it took to get there. 

Eventually, Crowley said, “I know you don’t sleep much, but… but I need a nap, and I feel like you could probably do with a lie-down, too, yeah?” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, that, um. That might be a good idea.” 

“Right,” Crowley said. “D’you… d’you want me to stay here, or–?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, clutching a little more tightly to Crowley’s lapels. “Yes. Please… please stay. Please.” 

“Staying,” Crowley said, a smile spreading across his face. He snapped his fingers, transporting them both upstairs into Aziraphale’s miraculously-clean bed (Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure whose miracle that was, nor did he particularly care) and changing them both into pyjamas, before lying out on his back and pulling Aziraphale to rest halfway on top of him, Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s chest, just over his heart. They were twined together, legs tangled beneath the covers, with Crowley’s arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist and Aziraphale’s hand resting lightly on Crowley’s chest. 

“Stay tonight, too?” Aziraphale murmured. 

Crowley chuckled, the sound reverberating through Aziraphale’s whole body. “I’ll stay. Long as you want me to.” 

“Hm,” Aziraphale breathed. “You might get tired of lying here forever.” 

“With this sort of company?” Crowley asked, squeezing Aziraphale’s middle gently. “I doubt it.” 

Aziraphale smiled, closing his eyes. 

They lay there in silence for a long, long moment, the only sounds in the room their soft breathing and the faint echoes of London outside. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said eventually. 

“What for?” Crowley asked, lifting his head to look down at his angel. 

“Listening to me. Holding me. Being here. Staying,” Aziraphale said, knowing that the words couldn’t hold everything he was grateful for and hoping that Crowley understood him anyways. 

Crowley smiled, ever so gently, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. “I’ve been wanting to do that for you for two hundred years, now, angel.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale softly. “Well. I suppose I’ve been wanting you to do it for nearly four thousand.” 

Crowley tugged Aziraphale a little closer and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “I love you, angel. I love you so much.” 

“I love you, too, dearest,” Aziraphale breathed, relaxing against his demon. Warm and comfortable and free and _safe_. Finally, finally, they were both safe. 

It wasn’t long before both angel and demon fell asleep, wrapped up close in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this hot-ass mess, lol! Comments and kudos fuel me, please let me know what you think!!


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